


Repentence

by HeahmundAndIvar (darachsciath)



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Blood and Torture, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Prisoner Heahmund, Religious Content, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 08:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13543986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darachsciath/pseuds/HeahmundAndIvar
Summary: Ivar managed to take Heahmund prisoner after the second battle in York. Feeling quite bored, Ivar choosed to pay the Bishop a visit…





	Repentence

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sorry...
> 
> All spelling and grammar mistakes are my own.

It was hard to tell what time of day it must be. Little light made it inside this chamber where the heathens had chosen to keep their prisoner. They had made sure he could not see nor hear anything other than the crawling and the creeping of rats in the corners of this dark and humid chamber. It once used to smell better, Heahmund kept telling himself. The last thing he remembered was that he was in a church, and he assumed he must still be in the sacred house. Only, maybe not where they had last allowed him to be awake and conscious. He could not remember the church itself being this dark, making it just more difficult for the Bishop to decipher what has happened to him - or how long he had been asleep this time. 

The heavy shackles kept him in place. His wrists were tied down, connected to two large, rusty rings that were attached to the slippery stone floor underneath him. Like a dog, the Bishop was chained to a large pole which stood rising up behind him. The thick collar made his neck feel so incredibly sore and the bishop groaned. Only his ankles had been spared from being tied down, but what use did it have? The heathens had made sure that their Christian prisoner would not escape by securing the other shackles with great precision - but never as precise as the craft used to create the sword Bishop Heahmund could call his own. Surely, these pagans had knowledge of certain things, but it did not take much for anyone to see that their knowledge of metal and how to work it was not developed as far as Heahmund is familiar with. The idea made the Bishop try and pull his right wrist away from its ties, but the metal was still strong. He would not escape so easily, and even if he could release his ties he would not get to run very far. Now, he is caught in the lair of the devil himself, with only pagans surrounding him. His own people, they were on the other side of these walls, out of the Bishop’s reach... 

The Bishop could only pray.

Hands clasped together - albeit rather forces, for the shackles did not leave him such comfort, the Bishop sat kneeled down, head bent down as much as was allowed by the rusty collar. Eyes closed, the Bishop’s lips moved hastily, whispering his hushed words of prayer, reciting them from his mind as if his life depended on it. He remained calm however, expressing no fear, nor discomfort or discourage. Even in this moment, of imprisonment and perhaps only mere days away from his end, the bishop remained calm and collected - and he prayed. 

The hushed whispers took over the Bishop’s mind. He had cleared out the squeaking and the scratching of the rats as well as the sound of a key turning in the lock of the heavy door that separated the man from the heathen plague in York. He had cancelled out the sound of a body being dragged across the stone floor. 

Ivar the Boneless crept until he was close enough in order to touch his prisoner by flicking his finger against the man’s forehead. He cocked his head to the side and watched the man who kept mumbling his words in a hushed tone. It was not the tone that made it difficult for Ivar to understand, but the language the man used to speak these words. Ivar had brought up his hand once more, ready to poke the priest a second time when suddenly a reaction did come from the prisoner. Bishop Heahmund lifted his chin and opened his eyes slowly, as if he woke up from a slumber. He remained quiet, and watched Ivar. Ivar, who flashed the prisoner a wide grin when their eyes met. 

“Ah, you have not yet died,” Ivar mused. He had learned a few things about the Christian language, but not all. However, it did not hold Ivar back from trying. If he were to speak to this man in his own tongue, all essence of this meeting would be gone. “What were you doing, priest?” 

“I pray to God. May he bring me salvation and release me from your cursed, pagan spell.” 

“Then by all means, continue,” Ivar said. He’d cast the man a frown and settled down near the Bishop. Heahmund watched the Viking and although he was confused, he did not let it seem. He kept a stern look on his face, that eternal gaze that never seemed to falter. “What are you doing?” Heahmund asked in return, earning another amused frown from his captor. “Do you not preach your words for other people?” Ivar asked. There was curiosity in his voice, but anyone who knows Ivar could tell it was meant to mock the Bishop. “Preach them to me, priest.” 

“Why?”

“Because it is not you who gets to ask the questions.”

Bishop Heahmund could only answer with a sigh and diverted his gaze away from the crippled Viking. Ivar hummed pleasantly, counting the prisoner’s silence as a personal victory. 

Eventually a moment came where Heahmund was no longer held back by Ivar’s presence, but he did not close his eyes yet when he chose to resume to his previous position of prayer. The Bishop clasped his hands together and hung his head. He remained silent. His lips did not move, but he was concentrated nonetheless. Soon, it was as if he was all alone again in this chamber, with no heathen and no rats - just himself, and God. 

Ivar found it fascinating, how the bishop could close himself off so easily. Surely, Ivar himself could do so as well if he wished, but he had no desire nor the need to pray to the gods on this day. Instead, he would observe this Christian instead, and perhaps put this man’s faith to a little test. After all, there was so little to do for Ivar now that his people needed to restore the city of York to its previous capacity and abilities. As a cripple, all he could often do was sit around and toy with his knives, or eat. However, finding the prisoner in prayer had brought Ivar to better ideas.

When Heahmund had resumed reciting his hushed prayers, Ivar moved forward slowly. He knew the priest could perhaps not hear him. Ivar came as close as was needed in order to shove the palm of his hand against Heahmund’s chest to push the man back against the pole behind him. It pulled the Bishop from his prayer. “What are you doing?” Heahmund asked, his voice still at the edge of a hushed whisper. 

“Nothing,” Ivar replied. He’d kept his hand pressed against the Bishop’s chest in order to keep him down as well as to make the man clear that he should stay down as well. “Just continue your prayer, Bishop Heahmund. Or would you not like to apologize to your God about these...sins, you commit?”

“What sins?”

Ivar pressed his lips together and frowned. “Is that not what you call it?” he asked. One hand left, Ivar chose wisely where to put it. He allowed it to wander, first reaching for the peg on his waist, and then to the man’s thigh, where he pressed the metal higher and higher until he could get a reaction out of the man. Heahmund had grabbed onto the Viking’s shoulder. The look in his eyes no longer seemed indifferent, but they were angry - although what Ivar could see was insecurity, and perhaps a hint of fear. It excited him, and Ivar smirked at the Bishop when he pressed the peg just that little further between his legs, making it’s rough and cold presence quite clear for the priest. “Pray, and I might let you keep it.” Ivar could only admit to himself that the change of look in Heahmund’s eyes could only deeply amuse him. Now there was fear, and it told Ivar something about this man. From others, Ivar had learned that Christians are prudes. Hence he thought that maybe this priest would not mind losing his prick, but the look on his face told differently and tempted Ivar into rubbing his peg there where Bishop Heahmund would feel it for sure. 

For a moment, Heahmund could do nothing but glare at the Viking. He could not look away from the young man’s face and those treacherous blue eyes. Not once before had Heahmund seen something like that in any man of pure human flesh. The colour of these eyes was not an earthly gift, it had something divine. The more he looked at them, the more Heahmund came to convince himself that Ivar was no ordinary cripple. He was divine and he was put on this world with a higher purpose - just like Heahmund himself. 

The Bishop’s hand remained on the Viking’s shoulder for a while longer until the peg no longer unsettled him. In order to pray, he must be at peace with himself and his surroundings, no matter how difficult the pagan was making it right now. Heahmund needed to prove himself to God, although he would not entirely mind suffering grave injury for his faith. He was willing to die to a certain extent, but also hoped that it would not be today. He still had a purpose to fulfill on this world, first. He still had to rid the world from the evil that was now tormenting his skin, baring its white fangs at the man of God. 

Heahmund clasped his hands together once more and closed his eyes. Perhaps if he did not have to look at it, he would have a better chance at cancelling out Ivar’s presence as well as the tormenting touch between his legs. 

Soon, the Bishop resumed his prayer and although he was now in a narrow position, he did not make it seem clear through the hushed whispers of his prayers. They remained calm and collected as before. Only now, Heahmund kept his hands pushed against Ivar’s chest in return, attempting to keep the heathen at a distance, at least. Ivar did not entirely mind as long as he could keep his peg there where he wanted to be. 

Heahmund was allowed two verses of prayer before Ivar took his torture a step further. He pressed the peg a little further, rubbing it against the Bishop’s crotch. The man stirred briefly, and Ivar grinned. Getting a reaction out of the man was what he was aiming for, because Ivar could read in the frown on the Bishop’s brow that he fought to ignore the torment in return. It was a battle the Bishop would lose, so much was clear to Ivar the Boneless. 

Ivar was eager to win this little, psychological fight, and he continued pressing his peg further, rubbing it against the prisoner’s crotch a little harder, then a little faster. He tried out different directions, different spots. Anything that would cause a reaction out of the priest would satisfy the prince. It would excite Ivar, but never enough. He knew what this man would be capable of once the stimulation gets too much, and in a way, it left a hint of frustration on Ivar’s mind. Jealously, pehaps. But he did not let it seem and continued rubbing the Bishop through the fabric of his breeches. 

Heahmund was now silent, only reciting his prayers in his hushed voice while still keeping the pagan at a safe distance using his clasped hands. He had cancelled out the noise, the presence and the sensation between his legs. Heahmund was aware what the heathen was causing, what Ivar wanted to reach. Heahmund knew how the boy would want to put him to shame in front of God. Ivar had called it a sin, but Heahmund knew he was a sinner and he believed that God knows too, but God is forgiving and he would forgive him now as well. The Bishop felt certain about it - he felt confident, and it awoke another reaction within Ivar when he could feel the priest change under the rough and cold touch of his peg. The priest was enjoying this, it seemed. At first, Ivar had grinned wide enough to chuckle a little as well, but then something snapped on his mind.

Ivar, in no means, was as calm and collected as Bishop Heahmund could be. He was angry, always. He had a temper bigger than his patience, and he was not controlled by the peace of the divine. Ivar was lead by his own wrath - his uncontrollable fury. 

Heahmund exhaled a small sigh in between prayers when he was granted safety from the peg, or so he thought. 

When Ivar pulled back the metal, it had only been to quickly twirl it in the right direction before he moved swiftly, bringing the peg back down between the Bishop’s legs, but this time...not at all quite kindly. 

Bishop Heahmund was torn from his prayer by his own loud, agonising cry. In a reflex, his hands released and pushed Ivar away from him. The look of betrayal in both men’s eyes was impossible to be missed - Ivar smirking for he had achieved that which he had not expected, yet needed anyway, and Heahmund looking brutally terrified because of the damage done by the heathen savage. Ivar allowed himself to fall back after he had been pushed away by the Bishop, but he remained to watch how the prisoner meekly tried to control the damage done to his body. The dark cloud of blood spread so easily through the fabric of the Bishop’s breeches and he could not help but grown in sheer discomfort - terror clear in his entire presence. Now, all peace from before was now gone. There was nothing left other than terror and pain, and Ivar enjoyed it so deerly he sat giggling at the Bishop, nearly clapping his hands if it had not been for the fact Ivar currently needed them to support his own body after he was forced to duck away from the bloodied peg the Bishop had thrown back at the Viking.

Having found a fine amount of pleasure in his visit, Ivar chose that it had been enough and pushed himself up so he could make his way out again. There was no need to be concerned about the priest and his tormented prick now. If his God forgives him for his sins, the man would live...

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://heahmundandivar.tumblr.com/) for more!


End file.
